Fred Who?
by silentsweetrevenge
Summary: George attempts suicide after the war at Hogwarts. When he comes to, he doesn't remember anything about his former life. Anything at all. Read and review, please! T for mild swearing and suicide.
1. The End

_The usual litany of disclaimers. _

He just wanted to see Fred again. George Weasley gazed at his singular reflection in the mirror. If he closed one eye and tilted his head a bit so the missing ear wasn't visible, he could pretend it was his brother standing before him, laughing and talking. Like the old days, before the war. It was now or never and he couldn't live like this anymore. Liquid soaked his shirtsleeves where he'd roughly wiped away tears. The decision had been easy. Choosing a method was more difficult. 'Obliviate' wouldn't work…simply forgetting his brother wasn't enough. 'Avada Kedavra' wasn't designed to be used on oneself. He'd finally decided on a Muggle method and a sharpened razor blade lay on the counter, inches from his shaking fingers. Surely Fred's death had been no less frightening. The blade was in his hand and on his skin. George closed his eyes, thought of his brother and drew the razor across one wrist, then the other. As the room began to fade, he looked in the mirror one more time, and watched Fred smile back. He sat down heavily against the bathtub. His last thought was of Fred and then everything went black.

Molly Weasley, the only other occupant of the house at that moment, was downstairs making lunch. Harry, Ginny, and Ron were due back from Diagon Alley any minute and they were sure to be hungry. Out of habit, she kept one eye on the unusual clock hung above the sink. The final battle of Hogwarts had been several months before, but the desire to know her family was safe stayed with Molly.

_Let's see, Arthur is "At Work." Ginny and Ron are "Traveling." Oh good, they'll be home soon then. Charlie and Bill are "At Work." George…George?_

As she watched, not quite understanding, George's hand on the clock moved from "At Home" to "Mortal Peril." It didn't make sense, perhaps the clock was getting old, but still she wanted to make sure. Bewitching the food to continue preparing itself, Molly ascended the stairs, forcing herself to remain calm. There was no answer at his bedroom door so she turned to the bathroom across the hall. "George?" she called. "Are you in there, dear?" No answer. But the door was locked. Shaking her head to squash the rising panic, she went up to the third floor and checked Ron and Harry's room, Ginny's room, even in the attic. Finally, she stood in front of the bathroom door again. Never one to worry too much about invading privacy when she was anxious, Molly unlocked the door and opened it a crack. She froze; mind, heart, and soul going blank. Her son sat on the floor in a puddle of blood, his face as white as the tub behind him, not moving. Suddenly coming to her senses, Mrs. Weasley threw herself across the threshold, caught up her son, and disapparated to St. Mungo's.


	2. He'll Live, But

All the Weasleys plus Harry huddled together on a row of cold chairs in the waiting room of St. Mungo's. There was a suicide ward here, but nearly all the patients used magical means and George had lost a lot of blood. Finally, a healer dressed in long purple robes stepped out of the elevator. Mrs. Weasley, who had cried so much she couldn't cry another drop, looked up.

"He's going to live," the healer said, and a sigh of relief swept over the family like a wave. "But," he began again.

Instant silence greeted him.

"But what?" Mr. Weasley asked what his wife could not.

"But the blood loss affected his brain in a way I've never seen before," the healer said, struggling to explain. "He appears to have contracted amnesia. I'm not sure how permanent it is, but so far he's shown no sign of knowing who or where he is."

"So he's awake?" Mrs. Weasley's voice was so hopeful, it broke the healer's heart. He knew what waited for them in a private room upstairs.

"Yes, and you can go see him shortly, but please, Mrs. Weasley, realize something. Your son has no idea who he is, where he is, who you are, or even that he's a wizard."

Though they didn't know it at the time, a tiny of seed of an idea had been planted that would change everything.

The young man lay in a hospital bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering why everyone around him was wearing a dress. His head pounded and he couldn't seem to remember his own name. Struggling into a sitting position, he waved down a man with white hair and a handlebar mustache.

"Oy! Where am I?"

The man approached him, checked a paper hanging from the foot of his bed, and nodded.

"You are in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Your healer has stepped out for a moment. Do you think you can answer a few questions?"

The younger man leaned against the pillows, shrugging his shoulders. "As long as you don't mind answering some of mine. Like…what the hell am I doing here? And why can't I remember my name?"

The healer, for that is what he was, sighed quietly and replaced the paper. "Your name is George Weasley, you're 20 years old, and you've contracted amnesia as a result of a near-fatal injury. Your family is waiting outside to see you, and if you're willing, we'll let your parents in."

George let this information soak in for a moment. "Yeah, I'll see them."

The healer, a man named Gregory Willer, nodded to the three people waiting in the doorway. A plump woman with shockingly red hair and a tall, thin man wearing glasses walked hesitatingly towards his bed. Another man in a purple dress followed close behind them. Two chairs appeared beside his bed and George jumped. "Where did those come from?" he asked the healer, voice raised.

"George, dear," the woman said, her round face anxious. "Do you know who I am?"

"No," he replied stubbornly. "Should I?"

"I'm your mother. And this is Arthur, he's your father. You've been injured and the doctor says you might not remember things for awhile."

"Yeah, no shit. I have no idea who or where I am and everybody's wearing dresses. Where did those chairs come from?"

The woman closed her eyes and sank into her chair. The man (Arthur?) lay a hand on her shoulder.

"George, son-"

"Don't call me that! I don't know you!"

"Okay…okay. I won't. George, you're a wizard. You attended a school for witches and wizards from when you were 11 to when you were 17. Everyone here is a wizard as well. We don't expect you to believe all of this, but it's the truth."

George sat with his mouth wide open. Wizards? What? "Anything else I need to know about?"

"Your brother and sister are waiting outside, but they can wait until you're feeling a bit better if you'd like."

"Sure, whatever."

The healer placed a hand on the tall man's arm and motioned to the door. "Mr. Weasley? Could I speak with you outside for a moment?"

Arthur Weasley glanced at his son, his stubborn, angry son, and left the room.

"Mr. Weasley, I think it would be best for you and your family to return some other time. Your son clearly isn't recovered enough to handle anything, as you've seen. If you like, we can keep you on constant update, but nothing is tripping his memory at the moment. Also, have you thought about what you're going to tell him about his injury?"

Mr. Weasley sighed. "We've discussed it, but not in detail. I think right now we're not going to tell him about Fred or why he's here. We'll think of something else to explain everything. He hasn't noticed his bandages?"

"No, and I expect by the time he does, they'll have healed. You remember we told you about the new methods for dealing with scarring? He won't have a mark on him."


	3. Dreams

The dreams began that night. George stood in a silent, dimly lit room, empty except for a huge mirror on one wall.

_George!_

He jumped, more at the sound than his name. There wasn't anyone in the room with him. Turning to the mirror, George examined his reflection. He touched the glass gently, and started when he realized the image hadn't mimicked his actions. Suddenly it divided into twin reflections standing side by side, and only one was his. The other spoke.

_George. They're telling the truth._

"Who? What?"

_Molly and Arthur Weasley. They're telling the truth. Trust them._

"Hang on a tick, who are you?"

But then he awoke in a dark hospital room, silent except for the faint steps of someone striding past his door. This was too weird. Throwing the coverlet towards the foot of the bed, George climbed off the mattress and searched through a small dresser until he found clothes. Enough was enough. First they said they're wizards and then give him some sort of pill that give him crazy dreams. George opened the door a crack and peered out into the hallway. No one in sight. Fourteen steps down the hall, he was intercepted by a burly man in black.

"You didn't think we left the wards entirely unmonitored, did you?"

George cursed quietly as he was escorted back to bed. The big man stood in the door and waited for him to change back into the hospital pajamas and get into bed. Then he closed the door and locked it from the outside.

George didn't sleep for the rest of the night. The Weasleys were due back tomorrow and maybe he'd get some answers out of them A pad of paper lay on the bedside table along with a feather he supposed was supposed to be a pen. Didn't people use feathers for pens in medieval times? A bottle of ink sat nearby. George turned on his lamp, grabbed the materials, and began writing. Or, trying to write, since he was so unpracticed with a quill pen. Most of the ink ended up on his shirt or the blanket. But a list of questions eventually formed on the paper.


	4. Isabella

Time went on.

George agreed to go home with the Weasleys, if only because they seemed to know something about his past. It was difficult to trust anyone, of course, but they were alright people. He'd met Ginny and Ron, his younger brother and sister, and a tall, thin boy named Harry who clearly wasn't related to any of them.

Their explanation for his accident was that he was preparing a new trick for his joke shop (he had a joke shop?) and it had gone wrong and exploded in his face. Somehow, memory loss had followed and here he was, living with a family that still wasn't his in a world he couldn't quite understand. Molly and Arthur had explained everything about wizardry, of course, and he'd even gone with them to escort Ginny to the train for her seventh year. There had also been a short visit down Diagon Alley, where people gave him sidelong glances and directed empathetic gazes at Molly and Arthur.

The dreams continued as well. At first they came every night. A silent, dim room with a mirror on one wall appeared in every one. His reflection would split and the twin would talk to him. They talked about many things, from a superficial conversation about how his day had gone to a deeper discussion about trust and love and where he belonged. George didn't know why the dreams were so compelling, but he always woke up with tears in his eyes and a empty feeling in his stomach like he'd lost his most prized possession and would never get it back.

Time went on.

Five months after his release from St. Mungo's, George left the Burrow one afternoon and headed into the nearby town. He wasn't looking for anything in particular, just exploring. The wind blew a chilly knife that wended its way through the threads of his scarf and into his face and he stepped into a tiny coffee shop. But as he opened the door, someone stepped towards it from the inside and what resulted was a rather clumsy collision. Papers flew everywhere as a petite young lady ran into the door and dropped everything in her hands. George apologized profusely, gathering the loose pages up and returning them to her arms.

"I'm so sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going-"

"No, it's my fault, I wasn't either-"

"But your papers-"

"It's alright, I can sort them out-"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

And with that final word, their eyes met. The previous flutter of confusion and apologies abated. George couldn't help but stare.

Black curls fell over wire-rimmed glasses. She was short and slim and had long fingers, like a pianist. Her skin was the color of caramel cream and her eyes were a shocking dark green. She was beautiful. On an impulse, George stuck his hand out.

"Erm. I'm George. George Weasley."

Her arms were still full of the papers, but she smiled, a gentle pearly grin.

"I'm Isabella."

_Isabella._

"Can I…buy you a coffee?"

She smiled again. "I was just leaving, actually. I have to be somewhere. But if I could take a raincheck?"

George returned the smile and nodded. It wasn't a yes but it wasn't really a no either. "Could I get your number?"

She nodded and waited patiently as he dug through his pockets to produce a pencil. He wrote the number down and held the door open for her as she left the building. He waited for her to disappear down the block and then turned towards the counter. A coffee alone would do for now.


End file.
